“I’m not afraid of you,” I said, steadying my voice around the truth. “Not anymore.” I let every syllable land like stone. “And you are not destroying my life again, Enrico.”
A heavy silence settled over the street.
The protesters had gone quiet, watching us with fascinated attention. Enrico seemed to realize we had an audience—and it only made him angrier.
His eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down, searching—calculating—trying to find a weakness he could press until I bled.
“We’ll see how long that courage lasts,” he said quietly, almost amused.
Then, slowly, he turned his back on me and walked toward his car, his arrogance intact, his dominance performed like instinct.
I watched him go without moving, holding my face steady, my posture unbreakable, until he was inside the vehicle and it rolled away down the street.
Only when the car vanished completely did my body loosen a fraction and allow me to breathe.
My heart was racing.
My hands trembled.
But I had faced him.
I had stood my ground—even if only for a few minutes.
Júlia approached quietly and touched my shoulder, worry in her eyes.
“Val… what was that? Are you okay?”
I blinked fast, forcing the last of the tears back. Then I turned to her—and to everyone still watching.
“I’m fine,” I said firmly, lifting my chin toward the crowd. “And now more than ever, we need to stay strong. If I already had reasons to fight before, now I have even more.” My voice carried, clear and steady. “That company—and its arrogant CEO—have no idea what we’re capable of. We’re not backing down, no matter what they do or say.”
Heads began to nod. People murmured agreement. Then applause rose—immediate support, fierce and real.
It strengthened me like a spine sliding into place.
I had changed.
I had grown.
And if Enrico Ferrara didn’t retreat, he was about to learn the hard way:
I wasn’t someone he could crush and forget anymore.
NINE
ENRICO FERRARA
The historic mansion Pedro had reserved for me in Tiradentes should have been more than enough to guarantee absolute comfort.
But in that moment, no amount of luxury or exclusivity could dampen the violent, destructive storm roaring inside me.
I paced the polished floors like a caged predator, expensive shoes striking wood in sharp, steady beats as I tried—and failed—to contain my rage. My muscles were tight. My hands clenched at my sides.
All I could see was her.
The woman who had ruined my life. Betrayed my trust. Dragged my name through public humiliation—and still had the audacity to look me in the eye with that absurd arrogance, as if she were some innocent victim of my actions.
My phone buzzed on the table, cutting through my fury. I answered the moment I saw André’s name.
